Descendants of Mother Nature

Wisteria

Wisteria stepped closer to the edge of the waterfall, her branch-like fingers trailing through the mist. Her flowers swayed softly around her, brushing the ground like the train of a royal gown.

I stood still, not knowing what to say...what to ask. But she seemed to sense everything anyway.

“You are one of us,” she said. “A descendant of Mother Nature herself.”

I blinked, unsure if I’d heard her right. One of… what?

“We are not just creatures of the forest,” she continued. “We are Nature’s bloodline.. her daughters, sons, and spirits. Some of us are born in human form, like you. Some as treefolk, like me. Others still as wind, flame, stone, or rain. We are scattered across the earth, hidden in plain sight.”

She turned toward me then, and for a moment, I felt like a seedling under the gaze of a thousand-year-old tree.

“But our numbers are dwindling,” she said, her voice dimming with sorrow. “Something dark has taken notice of us. A force who does not belong to the balance. A being of hunger, not harmony.”

The leaves around us stirred—not from wind, but from her words.

“He hunts us. One by one. His purpose is to sever our roots from the earth, to erase us completely. And if he succeeds…” She looked out at the water, as though watching a vision ripple across it. “…Nature will unravel. The rivers will rot. The skies will burn. And humanity—” she paused, “—will forget the song that once held the world together.”

My chest tightened. It felt too big to understand, too big for someone who, just yesterday, was scrubbing dishes and dodging fists. And yet… somewhere deep inside me, something stirred. Not fear. Not disbelief.

Recognition.

“You were born in pain,” Wisteria said softly. “But that pain did not come from nowhere. It came from being misplaced. Separated. But the forest called you home.”

I looked down at my hands—still marked, still trembling. But a warmth now pulsed beneath my skin.

“…What does this mean for me?” I whispered.

Wisteria’s eyes glowed brighter.

“It means,” she said, “you are no longer running. You are remembering.”

I didn’t know how long I stood there—beneath the waterfall’s mist, with vines overhead and sunlight scattering like broken glass—but everything felt still, like the world had paused to let me breathe.

Then Wisteria turned to me, her voice gentle but firm.

“Time is not on our side. The darkness moves quickly, and Nature grows weaker with every breath. But you…” Her eyes lingered on mine. “…you are not ready. Not yet.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You must grow,” she continued. “Your power, your heart, your mind—they must find each other before they can bloom. Until then, you are vulnerable. And untrained magic is as dangerous as it is powerful.”

That last part struck something in me. A sharp, quiet ache.

I looked down at the ground, at the moss between my toes.

“I don’t want to use it,” I said quietly.

Wisteria tilted her head. Her petals barely moved, but the forest seemed to listen more closely.

“I don’t want any of it,” I went on. My voice cracked. “I hurt someone. My cousin. I didn’t mean to—but I did. I think I killed her.”

The truth slipped out like a stone from my chest.

And then silence.

Wisteria closed her glowing eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, they shimmered with something deeper—grief, yes, but not fear.

“Your cousin is not dead,” she said softly. “But the energy that powers his soul… is dimmed.”

My breath caught.

“What do you mean?”

“She lives,” she said. “But as if beneath a shadow. What you released wasn’t destruction. It was awakening. Raw and wild. Your soul was defending itself the only way it knew how. That energy must now find balance—or it will unravel you both.”

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and sudden.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered.

Wisteria knelt down then, graceful despite her towering frame. Her tree-like hand reached out—not to grab, not to push, but to offer. I didn’t take it, but I didn’t move away.

“None of us did,” she said. “But still, we are chosen. And the Earth…” she looked to the canopy above, where birds had gone quiet and the leaves seemed less green than they should have been, “…she is dying slowly. Her waters dry. Her winds falter. Her creatures forget their names. We cannot save her without you.”

I said nothing.

But something inside me shifted—like a root cracking open underground, uncertain but no longer still.

Wisteria rose again.

“You do not have to decide today,” she said. “But you must decide eventually. And when you do… we will be waiting.